


Counting to Ten

by TellMeNoAgain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 9+1, Alternative BDSM Safety Protocols: Stop Means Stop, BDSM spanking, Domestic Discipline, F/M, First Time spanking, M/M, Spanking, minor mentions of Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:21:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Counting out ten spankings isn't nearly enough to bring a submissive to tears...Or wait.Just this once, it might be.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 87





	Counting to Ten

**Author's Note:**

> I have to admit, this story began as a spite fic. I've been spanked a lot, and 10 spanking smacks, no matter how hard, aren't going to faze the average superhero, okay? 
> 
> I hate that it began as a spite fic, but I'd just read a story where the author had a character entirely fall to pieces crying about how ten open-handed thwacks had nigh-crippled them and I'd rolled my eyes, which _is neither nice nor fair and now you know that about me._
> 
> But, then I got to thinking.
> 
> Sure. 10 counted spanks isn't going to nigh-cripple a superhero.
> 
> But that doesn't mean the right 10 counted spanks, for the right reason, wouldn't wreck one.
> 
> This is that fic. I also decided to try the 9+1 format because it's something I've never done and I do like to give myself those little challenges to help myself grow. So this is "nine times Peter didn't count the spankings plus one time Peter did." 
> 
> Finally, I dislike that a reasonable safety precaution used to ensure continued consent in non-con scenes (safewords) has become some kind of required feature of all BDSM scenes, regardless of whether it's useful and has a function within that scene. Stop can just mean stop, folks, as long as you talk that through in advance and you both agree on it.
> 
> Look. I had a lot of spite and I put it all into this fic but honestly, they're a very sweet, cute pairing and I think you'll like it. Ignore the author and the author's issues.
> 
> Special thanks to my beautiful and brainy betas, jf4m and mindwiped, and the cheering crew of gutterbabies at Writer Buddies Discord Server, found here: [WriterBuddies](https://discord.gg/4KWWccK)

1

Peter laughs nervously from his position draped across Tony’s lap. “Oh, God, okay, do I like, count them?” he asks.

“No, you don’t count them,” chuckles Tony, his voice already roughened with desire. “It’s not about quantity, it’s about quality. We’re going to find out if you like this as much as I think you will.”

“And you’re sure we don’t need safewords?” asks Peter nervously. “Because I’m pretty sure safewords are a thing.”

There’s a pause while Tony’s hand caresses his ass. “Babe, if you want a safeword, you can have one. But if you say stop, I’m going to stop. The goal isn’t to hurt you in any way you won’t like, tonight.”

“Right. Stop can mean stop,” recited Peter. He nodded his head.

“Less chance of confusion, of you forgetting what you need to say,” mused Tony, one finger sliding between Peter’s asscheeks playfully.

“It’s just- other people- in movies,” babbles Peter, calling himself three kinds of idiot as his IQ abruptly drops 100 points.

Tony’s so suave and cool and sophisticated, but he never laughs, not really, not meanly, not at Peter, anyway. Not at Peter’s youth or inexperience or- or mistakes. “Yeah, but we’re not making a movie,” teases Tony, “so we don’t have to pretend we know what’s safe. We know what’s safe- if you say ‘stop,’ I stop. If you say ‘no,’ I stop. If you say, ‘wait,’ I stop. If you say, ‘negatory, negatony,’ I call you a gigantic dork, and I stop.”

“I would _never_ call you negatony,” points out Peter.

“And thank God for that,” Tony chuckles. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”

“Yes,” mumbles Peter.

“Try not to tense up,” teases Tony.

His hand lifts, and Peter tenses all over. Tony blows out a breath, releasing it with that same dark chuckle as his hand smacks down firmly across Peter’s left ass cheek.

Peter hisses as the bright white shock of pain slams into his entire pelvic region, making his adrenaline and heartbeat spike, making him gasp. 

“Well?” asks Tony after a long pause.

“More,” mutters Peter. “I- it felt- more.”

“Good,” praises Tony, and then he gives Peter the requested _more._

2

Peter shifts, standing beside Tony in the wings of the stage.

“Didja pee?” asks Bucky, teasing, from behind them. “‘Cause you’re awfully wiggly, kid. And you don’t wanna hafta go in front of like 5,000 people just as they’re announcing-”

Tony whirls around and glares at Bucky. Peter huffs at the constant overbearing overprotectiveness the man exudes. 

_You burst into dust particles apologizing once, and the guy really really takes it to heart, apparently._

_Really._

Although it’s worked out pretty well for Peter so far.

“So let’s bring out the neighborliest of friendly spiderpersons,” announces the goofy host of the Avengers Hour press conference extravaganza. “And see if he’s willing to give us an exclusive peek underneath that tight mask!”

That’s Peter’s cue, and Tony smacks his ass until he bolts forward, nerves forgotten because he’s on a mission now. His job is to stay sharp, be ready for anything, and also _unmask in front of this crowd of people._

They’ve been over it a million times, it’s the smart choice.

He sets his jaw, Tony’s supportive handprint blazing briefly as a reminder, and bounds on the stage, adding a few crowd-pleasing flips and springs just because literally nobody else on the team is going to do it.

Tony saunters out after him, and Bucky does his murder-death-strut thing beside Tony, both of them wearing the tight smiles of coworkers who will absolutely deliberately steal pens from each other’s stash.

Peter’s really grateful for two things, as the reveal goes off without a hitch: One, that Tony is there to center him and stabilize him, and Two, that Sam told him about the bathroom thing days ago.

3

“Happy Birthday to you,” sings the crowd of collected support crew- the Avenger team analysts and SHIELD field agents who train with them and keep eyes and ears out for them, the rest of the Avengers who could make it, the whole entire cafeteria and catering group that Tony insisted be present and _off duty_ for his party.

Tony grins wildly at all of them, Pepper tucked into his arms looking blissfully out at the collected crew, Morgan cavorting wildly in circles around them because _it’s her dad’s birthday_ and that combines two of Morgan’s favorite things. Peter watches them, off to one side for the safety and discretion that he insists upon, and so he misses the first part of the conversation, but catches Tony’s affronted, “-the hell? No, no, no, you got me all wrong. I delegate _that_ kind of scutwork to the intern. Peter! Peter!”

Peter glares up at him briefly, before all eyes turn to him and he smiles for the crowd. Damn the man. Damn him, for _pushing_. He’s always _pushing_. Peter’s _not ready_ to reveal how close he is to his mentor and take those particular microphones shoved into his face. “What, Boss?” he shouts loudly.

“The fossil says I have to get a birthday spanking for tradition,” calls Tony, to the assembled chuckles and giggles of the crowd. “But I’m delegating!”

“Fine time to figure out how to do that,” quips Peter, rolling his eyes.

“Awww, c’mon, now, kid, help me out,” shouts Tony, grinning at Peter through his glasses. “A number that big’ll break a lesser man, and you’ve got that healing factor.”

There’s catcalling from the crowd as Peter pushes his way through the crowd because, yeah, if Tony wants to play with fire and _push_ , he knows how to play that game, too. Tony’s eyes narrow just a little as Peter jumps easily up onto the short platform, smiling broadly. “Who’s big idea was this?” he asks loudly.

Fifteen hands fly up in the crowd. Peter notes them all, still smiling. “I count fifteen. That’s not nearly enough people.”

“Some can spank you more than once,” offers Morgan seriously.

Peter crouches down in front of her and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Morgan,” he says earnestly. “My butt is so toned and tight it could break a grown man’s hand, sweetie.”

Her mom makes a snorting sound and then takes a sip of champagne, rolling her eyes to concede the issue, much to the assembled crowd’s delight and laughter.

“It could?” gasps Morgan, her gaze flying to her father for confirmation.

“Probably,” agrees Tony, tilting his head to one side as if Peter is a problem he’s contemplating solving in order to win a Field’s Medal.

“But it’s tradition,” says Morgan. “I had to get seven!” The gap in her teeth is so endearing, Peter concedes, looking up at her from his crouch.

From nowhere, there’s the sound of repulsors. Peter’s spider senses tingle as he whips his head to look at Tony, who purses his lips, shrugs, and then smiles wickedly. Peter jumps to evade, but is caught, to the crowd’s laughing delight, and the damn suit actually manages to land a few blows before Peter webs it into a cocoon and stands on its chest, glaring at Tony, suit rumpled beyond belief.

“What?” laughs Tony, hands spread in innocence. “I told you, this crowd’s bloodthirsty and I can’t take that kind of damage anymore.”

“You satisfied?” Peter asks the assembled collective of laughing coworkers.

Everyone cheers and there are a few jeers, but then the flaming cake comes out and Dum-E sprays it with additional frosting via a fake fire extinguisher, and the party moves on from the excitement.

Tony sidles up to him and murmurs lowly, as if conferring about some party detail, “Hey, did you count? Because you still gotta take all the rest of ‘em for me, or it’s bad luck.”

Peter barks a laugh and shakes his head. “No, I did _not_ ,” he reports. “And you can suffer your own bad luck, I can’t _believe_ you, Tony Stark.”

Tony grins over at him, a kid sharing a secret with a buddy, and Peter successfully fights back the incipient blush by reminding himself that Tony has actually spent time in front of a mirror teaching himself to grin jovially in order to get out of trouble. He frowns at Tony, who gives him injured eyes and says, “Okay, not funny, I’ll take note,” in an impressed tone of voice.

“A little funny,” concedes Peter, caving, as Morgan grabs the frosting “fire extinguisher” from Dum-E and coats both of them.

She’s as predictable as her father, Peter decides. He saw that coming a mile away.

Tony splutters, though, before chasing after her shouting murderous raging threats that no one believes. 

Pepper sidles up to Peter’s side and assures him, “I’ll make him apologize tonight.”

“No worries, I got it,” smirks Peter. “Not like it hurt, anyway.”

Pepper snorts and shakes her head at him. “No, I imagine not,” she murmurs cooly, before sliding a single finger through the frosting on his shoulder and slipping it into her mouth, making a happy pleased noise and raising her eyebrows at him innocently. 

“You’re worse than he is,” Peter hisses. 

She smiles and assures him quietly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She pats his ass as she steps forward to pull a frosting-drenched Morgan from her father, reactivating the slight burn the suit had left behind. 

_Yum_ , thinks Peter, mind momentarily devoid of any thoughts except for Tony and sugar and spankings, all of which he’ll have after midnight, if not sooner.

He eyes up Tony’s happy grin and hopes the answer is _sooner_.

4

Tony is buried balls-deep inside Peter- he’s fairly certain the man is rearranging his organs for his comfort and convenience- and honestly he couldn’t be happier to accommodate. _Fuck_ , but Tony is good at everything, and especially good at this. Peter rolls his sweaty forehead on his forearms and moans.

“You like that?” huffs Tony, somehow coherent despite the pounding rhythm he is achieving, every thrust inching Peter across the sheets. In lieu of answering him, Peter concentrates on breathing and staying tethered to the planet.

“I said,” grunts Tony impatiently, “do you _like_ that?” His hand smacks out, impatient, landing on Peter’s left ass cheek, fingertips burrowing in to add pressure to the shocking skin-on-skin slap.

“Yes, _sir_ ,” gasps Peter, smiling into his arms, shoving back hard on the next thrust. “Yes, sir,” he repeats on a long, low moan, as Tony slaps his ass again. “Yesss.”

He’s pandering, a little, and they both know it. It only gets his ass smacked some more, and they both know that’s the whole point. Tony uses pretty much any excuse he can find to smack Peter’s ass in this position, and Peter- well. Peter tries to invent new excuses for him, when he runs out.

5

It’s a small, distracted motion on Tony’s part, but it drives Peter crazy every single time.

“Here, hop down,” Tony grunts irritably, already five-sixths of the way buried in the equations, trying to figure out the issue at Peter’s right calf with the wiring nexus within the suit. It’s fine in theory, but hot to the touch in practice, and it needs to be addressed before they end up in a long fight and it burns a patch in Peter’s skin, or distracts him at the wrong time.

Or bursts into flame, Peter concedes. That could just happen.

Flames just _happen_ , sometimes.

And then Tony does the thing- he does it and he probably doesn’t even notice he does it, he’s that buried in the engineering. 

He slaps his hand against Peter’s outer thigh, absently but firmly, and says, “Scoot your boot, c’mon, get down.”

Someone taught Tony that’s an acceptable way to get someone else off a 3-D imager, and Peter’s never telling him it’s not. It’s adorable and absentminded and he’d make _scoot your boot_ his ringtone if it wouldn’t be likely to change everything about the small moment that happens so rarely and never fails to curve his lips into a smile. He waits, and there it is, again, more irritated this time, just as distracted- “ _Scoot_ your _boot_ , Underoos,” and the single hearty slap to his thigh.

Peter grins and hops down, turning to peer at the math Tony’s trying to work his way through.

The warmth of the handprint on his thigh is already fading as he says, “No- no- .6, not .55, you want- here-” and Tony makes the irritated noise that means Peter’s probably right.

6

It’s just the two of them, and Peter’s actually a little tipsy on Thor’s mead, again. Tony’s twelve sheets to the wind, so that’s fair, he decides. 

“When the night has come,” croons Tony, along with Ben E. King over the penthouse speakers. Morgan and Pepper are back upstate, so it’s a Boy’s Night tonight, and they’ve decided to take advantage of it.

_Take advantage._

Peter snorts with laughter at how appropriate that phrase is, right now, as Tony gives him a spin that ends in a tangle of limbs that Peter has to sort out so that they’re slow dancing- _“How have you never slow danced, Peter Parker?”-_ in rhythm again, Tony’s arms wrapped around Peter tightly as they sway and shuffle their feet.

“And the moon, is the only, light you’ll see,” warbles Tony happily, sliding his hands up and down Peter’s back. Peter tries to shoulder out of the touches, to put back the bare half-inch of space that Tony had allowed at the beginning, if only to make it more likely that they won’t fall.

“Stop that,” mutters Tony, faking irritation, smacking at Peter’s ass. “I’m teaching you how to slow dance, this is the handsy part. Your job-” and he smacks Peter’s ass again, this time looking deeply into Peter’s eyes with a crooked grin, “-is to let me grind on you.”

“Tony,” laughs Peter, shaking his head in protest, “we’re going to fall!”

“You won’t fall, baby,” promises Tony rashly. “I’ll catch you. Every time.”

Peter remembers the fight earlier that day, careening through buildings with heat-seeking missiles mere feet from his body, the dizzy feeling of being overwhelmed by his spider-senses at the _worst_ possible moment when he’d strayed too close to one of the inevitable sonic shockwaves. He remembers falling, and wildly attempting to web anything that could help him identify _up_ from _down_ , and then Iron Man’s voice on the comms saying firmly, “Playing bugcatcher in 3, 2, 1-” before the firm grip of a robotic hand grabbed his ankle. He’d groaned, because he _hated_ being the damsel, and Tony had clucked his tongue before depositing him on a rooftop.

“You’ll catch me,” he whispers to Tony, whose eyes darken and narrow. “Every time.”

“Every time,” agreesTony firmly, nodding just a little. “Every time, Peter Parker.”

“Catch me,” whispers Peter, his lips tickled by Tony’s close-cropped facial hair. “ _This_ time.” The music swells- _“Darling, Darling!”_ and he dips himself back, trusting Tony's grip on his waist, trusting that Tony’s drunk, sure, but not _that_ drunk, and enjoying the chance to show off, just a little. Showing off for Tony, watching the man’s eyes blaze, like that, looking more sinful and sinister with every passing heartbeat- _Fuck_ , what it does to him.

He’s in a penthouse on top of the world, and he’s sliding back into that held-tight position Tony insisted on, for the first song, declaring, _“There is only one way to properly slow dance with the man of your dreams and the love of your life, and you’ve got to learn it, Peter.”_ The richest, smartest, best man on the planet is holding him, and looking at him like there’s no one else in the world he wants to look at, and so, yeah, Peter’s showing off a little.

As the music settles into another verse, slow and aching and calm, Tony looks down at Peter and Peter looks up at Tony, there, at the top of the world they’ve just saved, again, and then Tony quirks a grin and slaps Peter’s ass, declaring, “The student has become the master! FRI, can we get this piped into the bedroom? Gonna shift settings if he’s going to get all sassy and smug on me.”

“You did just promise to catch him every time,” FRIDAY points out with an air of trying to be fair.

“Every time,” Peter agrees, and he knows his eyes are shining up at Tony as they slide into the master suite.

“Gonna buy you a pole, make you dance on it for me,” Tony informs him hotly. “Christ, is there anything you can’t learn, first time through?”

Peter purses his lips and pretends to think about the question, before shrugging. “Not if you’re the one teaching me.” He smiles widely and declares, “Catch me,” before sagging limply in Tony’s arms. “I call this trick,” he tells Tony earnestly, as Tony splutters and lifts him up, “the Tony Stark Center of Attention Special. Is it working?”

“So naughty,” declares Tony, but there’s thick laughter within the mock-wrath of his tone. “You’ve got to fix your attitude, Underoos.”

“Make me,” Peter laughs, as Tony smacks his ass while hauling him toward the bed. “Make me, Tony,” he breathes, a second later, as they crash to a sloppy roll on the bed. “Catch me. Make me. Every time.”

Tony’s answer is long lost in the kisses he peppers in the crook of Peter’s neck.

7

“And how,” asks Tony archly, as his hand smacks down crisply on Peter’s bare ass, draped over one knee, “are we feeling about that decision, my sexy little subby man?”

Peter draws in a deep hissing breath and writhes, before panting in time to the hits as he gasps, “Fine, good, please, more, sir- God, this is- my favorite, God, please, please don’t stop, sir, please, please-”

“Your _favorite?”_ mocks Tony. “Can’t be, just ten minutes ago you swore the _vibrator_ was your favorite.”

“You- you- you,” babbles Peter, as the hand hits down, the accuracy impaired by Peter’s flinching, jumping motion over the knee. “You- you- please- you’re- it’s you, you’re my favorite!”

“Finally, an honest answer,” laughs Tony, dropping his knee so that Peter crashes to the floor, catching up Peter’s face and drawing him up for a deep kiss.

Peter’s whirling with all of the sensation- sweet-soft-fiery-hot-heat-melty-good - and so he’s not entirely certain the kiss is his best work.

“You shouldn’t make me work so hard,” murmurs Tony against his lips. “Makes me cranky.”

“Love you cranky,” declares Peter, licking his way into Tony’s mouth in the way that will make Tony’s smile broaden. “Love it. Love you. Love-”

“Told you you’d be a slut for a good spanking,” laughs Tony.

“Slut for you,” agrees Peter breathlessly, quivering in anticipation. Tony looks down at him, a long slow sultry gaze of affection and possession, and smiles.

“My favorite,” he tells Peter slowly, savoring every syllable. “You ready for me to use that ass in _my_ most favorite way?”

“God, Tony,” moans Peter. “Yesssss, please.”

Tony hefts him back onto the bed and slaps his ass as he crawls up to kneel behind Peter, snorting with laughter when Peter yelps a protest.

“Whatever, Underoos, you like it. I told you that you would.”

8

“Up, Peter, bright brand new day, lots to do,” says Tony entirely too cheerfully.

Peter scrunches further into the pillows, mumbling promises to be up in five or ten or whatever the other man wants as long as, here in this moment, he’s left alone. On his left, Morgan burrows in, too, mumbling the same sort of lies.

“Morgan, Peter, seriously, you’re killing me here, it’s Science Museum day, get _up_ ,” commands Tony.

“Five more,” says Morgan firmly, and Peter doesn’t even dignify Tony’s nonsense with a response, burrowing deeper into the pillows.

“I didn’t want to do this,” sighs Tony, “but you’ve left me no choice.”

There’s silence then, which is suspicious and alarming in the way that silence around Tony is always suspicious and alarming. Peter can feel Morgan drift up to more and more wakefulness, in rhythm with his own slow awakening. Tony’s up to something- something potentially very awkwar-

“BUTT BONGOS!” shouts the man, and there’s a huge _OOmph_ as he jumps on the bed, trapping their legs and slapping down furiously- _slightly_ harder on Peter’s legs, Peter notes with amused resentment- everywhere that could reasonably be assumed to encase something nearly a butt.

“Ow! No! Dad! No!” laughs Morgan, twisting and attempting escape. Peter can’t allow that kind of defection to occur, so he grabs her in his arms and hauls her to drape over him, brandishing her like a shield and trying to curl under her. “What! Nooo!” she shrieks and giggles, as her dad declares, “Ooooh! A spine xylophone!” and begins to tap her with his knuckles, humming some kind of crazy calypso tune under his breath.

“Da-aaa-ad!” shrieks Morgan, followed by, “Peter, no! Same sides, let’s get him!”

“3-2-1,” chants Peter quickly, releasing Morgan to allow her to flounder in the blankets and draw Tony’s attention so that Peter can pounce while laughing, “Kidney saxophone!” and making them both sneer, “What the _hell_ , Peter?” before tickling the shit out of Tony’s ribs while blowing raspberries on his back.

Morgan is a fast learner, too, quickly throwing herself on her father to do the same. Peter’s always liked that about her.

Tony laughs so hard he pulls a muscle in his back and declares it _entirely worth it_ , an assessment Peter can’t really argue with, given how warm and happy the whole memory makes him, even just a few hours later.

9

Peter’s heart is racing, stretched out and sweaty facedown beside Tony on the bed, their legs still entwined and everything at that sticky-hot-trembling-fluttering phase. Tony’s hand pats around absently on his torso before smacking him soundly on the ass, declaring, “Good game!” as Peter makes an injured noise.

“What the hell,” gasps Peter, rolling his eyes. “We don’t- you don’t _good game_ after sex, Tony.”

“That was a _sex marathon_ and it’s always good sportsmanship to acknowledge clean, fair play in your teammates,” argues Tony, his voice still sounding a little raspy. 

“None of that was clean,” points out Peter. “That was, in fact, the raunchiest, dirtiest- Tony, I’m pretty sure we broke laws that are _still on the books_ , in the last hour.”

“If you think _that’s_ dirty sex, you should see what happens now that we need to go to overtime,” says Tony gleefully.

Peter closes his eyes tightly, imagining how very few possibilities are left to them- they really did hit all the filthiest, freakiest things on their mutual Top Ten Favorites list. “How- when did we need to go to overtime?” he says faintly, stalling. Maybe Tony will let him catch his breath, if he can just distract the man.

“When the score was 2-2 and there was no clear winner,” breathes Tony, kissing his way up Peter’s shoulders, and then neck, to lick sloppily at his cheek and the tear stains there.

“Disagree with the call,” says Peter distractedly, feeling his libido perk right up against all odds. “I am clearly the winner, tonight.”

“No, me,” laughs Tony, slapping Peter’s ass again, chuckling even louder when Peter yelps. “Definitely me. You’ve been worked too hard to be the winner.”

“Winners work hard,” points out Peter. Tony smacks his ass again and he startles, shocked by how much a single slap can hurt after the long consecutive smacks he’d taken just minutes before during the one-sided spanking contest. He begins to moan as Tony rubs the burning sensation in deeper and deeper. “I concede?” he offers. 

“Can’t- missed the window,” says Tony with mock-regret. “Now you’re just going to have to agree to play.”

“Oh, well.” Peter bites his lip as Tony’s fingers trace the pucker of his asshole before pressing in. “At least I tried- A plus for effort.”

Tony snorts with laugher before kissing Peter’s shoulder, fingertips grinding into Peter’s prostate mercilessly. “Absolutely. A plus plus. Excellent effort. Go team!”

“What’s the prize?” gasps Peter.

“Field’s medal, I got one or two- or my Nobel, if you want that instead,” huffs Tony, kissing Peter’s bicep.

“Shut up,” growls Peter, pressing back on the finger. “Just- you’re awful- you’re just-”

“I’ll work on it,” offers Tony.

“Work on me first,” Peter demands in a gasp.

“Oh, right, overtime,” says Tony, like he’s not three fingers deep into Peter’s ass. “And really, we’re all the winner during overtime, aren’t we?”

“Fuck, yes, sir,” agrees Peter, nodding his head eagerly. “Fuck. Yes.”

10

“So we agree,” says Tony, his voice grave and stern. Peter flinches and then mutters in a raw voice, “Yeah, Tony. I- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t okay,” Tony repeats. 

Peter flinches again. “Yes, no- I know that, I- I agree. And I’m so sorry, Tony.”

The moment stretches between them like taffy, Peter on his knees, Tony sitting forward, perched on the edge of his chair, fingertips pressed together and tucked under his chin, contemplating Peter.

Peter swallows, the constant blushing and infrequent tears as they’d talked leaving his cheeks feeling hot and raw, like sunburn even with the healing factor.

“And so now we have to negotiate what will put it away,” Tony says. “What we can do, to make it _go away_ , Peter, to put it behind us.”

“Yes,” breathes Peter, before shaking his head, unable to come up with a single helpful thing to say, to add- to- make it all better, to wipe out what he’d done.

“I have an idea, Peter,” offers Tony slowly, grave and solemn, so unlike his normal fun and flirty nature that Peter has to look up, shocked. “Take ten from me. If you can do ten- and count them- I think that’ll put it behind us.”

“Ten?” asks Peter, his heart fluttering wildly. “Ten- ten what? Ten-?”

“Ten spanks,” Tony tells him, eyes hard and serious.

Peter snorts and shakes his head, wiping his eyes with a shaking hand. “Tony, ten is- ten is nothing, and this is- this is huge- I- I need-”

“Take ten,” says Tony firmly. “And then we can talk if you still feel like it wasn’t enough.”

Peter snorts again but mutters, “Y-yes, yes, whatever- Tony, whatever you want, I will- I-”

“Whatever _we_ want, _we_ will,” corrects Tony bluntly, and Peter winces. _Yeah, about that-_

Silence falls on the room and Peter risks another fast glance up- and away, at the serious expression on Tony’s face, how darkened it is, how it’s lost the glow it usually has, when the man is looking at Peter. He can’t look at Tony, not like this, not when he- “Now?” he croaks, throat tight. “Please- Tony, now?”

“Yeah, c’mon, kid,” says Tony leaning back and patting his lap. Peter shoots to his feet, hands already unfastening his pants to let them drop and bare his ass for Tony’s hand, already wondering how he’s going to _ask for more_ after a measly ten. It’s not that he’s ever counted, at any point, in all the spanking they’ve done, but he knows he usually takes a helluva lot more than _ten_ without even breaking a sweat.

Ten.

What the fuck is Tony thinking?

He settles himself there, in the so-familiar position on Tony’s lap, his nose already plugged with all the snot from crying, earlier, as he’d confessed. He’d risked small glances up as he’d told Tony the full tally, because he’d feared the disappointment that must follow such a story. He’d never caught it, but maybe Tony was just- really good at concealing it. Peter feels small and anxious and hurt, in a way he’s never felt before, draped there on Tony’s lap, in a position he loves because Tony’s the only person on earth he’d trust to do this with him. 

And now he’s betrayed that trust. How could he be so _stupid?_ How can Tony be so nice about it? So- ten spanks?! How can he be so _flippant?!_

Tony’s hand- warm and familiar- rests on the chilling skin of his ass, rubbing there for a moment. “You’ve never let me down,” Tony says quietly, and Peter gasps, eyes smarting. “I know you think- I know you think you did, with that story you just told, but Peter, I don’t expect you to be perfect.”

The words ring through the air around them, settling heavily into the silence because Peter can’t think of anything to say, to those words.

“I know you want to be perfect for me,” Tony continues, as Peter shifts, for the first time uncomfortable over Tony’s knees. “I know you think you deserve a lot more than what I’m about to give you. But what _I_ know, Peter Parker, is how impossible I am to love, to live with, to forgive, when I’m at my worst. No- don’t- you haven’t seen anywhere _near_ my worst,” he says, his voice rough and raw as Peter begins to protest. Peter’s throat tightens as Tony adds bitterly, “My worst- this little incident- Peter, you wouldn’t be able to forgive me, for my worst. And that’s why you’ll never get it. You’ll always get my best. I- I promise you, Peter, you’ll only ever get my _best_ ,” he finishes fiercely.

There’s a pause, and he can feel Tony collect himself, push down the emotions in his chest and draw a slow deep breath, reach for control. It makes Peter dizzy, how much the man _loves_ him, how much he understands Peter and is willing to do anything for Peter, set impossible goals, set-

“I don’t need you perfect, Peter,” says Tony roughly. “That’s not- this was a forgivable mistake, that’s all. A _nothing_ , Peter Parker, a human mistake. And the courage it took-” he swallows and Peter can hear how tight Tony’s throat is, his own aching in sympathy- “to kneel here and tell me, Good God. I don’t need you perfect, Peter Parker.” Peter can feel the tears begin to fall from his eyes, at the repetition, as Tony’s hand lifts and his voice changes to something rough and just a little hard, “But I do expect your _best_ , my love. And you will give it to me. Count them.”

The hand falls, and Peter is shocked at how many feelings it jolts free- all the guilt and shame, the fear behind the last few hours, as he’d decided to talk to Tony and _tell_ the man he loves about- about what he’d done, the choices he’d made, how stupid and confused and dumb he’d been. He realizes Tony is waiting for him, with that heavy hand, and gasps, “One. Sir,” shaking his head to clear some of his confusion.

“Good,” praises Tony, in a growl that shakes through Peter in ripples of hurt and shame. That Tony would say that word, now- that he’d say Peter had been _courageous_ when he’d been so damn _stupid_ and _thoughtless_ and _hurtful_ in the first place, when he’d given Tony his _worst-_

The hand rises and falls, landing so heavily Tony’s knees rock with the blow before he re-braces them on the floor. Peter yelps, he can’t help it, and then, ridiculously, he sniffles, and when he realizes how patiently Tony waits for him, he shouts, “Two, sir!” because he has to let some of the feelings inside him out, and shouting is the only way to get that done, right now.

“Good,” repeats Tony, and Peter chokes on his suddenly drawn breath and the tears flowing. He’s _not_ good, though, not good for Tony, not giving Tony his best, that’s- that’s _patently false_ , or he wouldn’t have had to- wouldn’t be here- wouldn’t-

The hand slams down again, and Peter whimpers, “Three, sir,” right away, flinching when Tony whispers back at him, “Good.”

Peter writhes, hands coming up to thread through his hair to tug a little, the sensation grounding for just a minute before Tony says, “No, put them down. For this? Only _I_ have the _right_ to punish you. Give me your best, Peter Parker,” he reminds in a careful voice clogged with compassion and pain, both.

Peter hiccups and drops his hands as if they’re leaded, wrapping them firmly around Tony’s ankles. “Please, please,” he begs, but he doesn’t actually know what he’s begging for, this time.

“Yes,” says Tony, in that same determined, stern tone, his hand flying again, the blow shaking Peter’s frame. Peter gasps and then chokes, and calls out, “Four, four, sir, I’m s-sorry,” his voice cracking and shaking apart.

“I know you are,” says Tony with that same aching compassion. “I know, I haven’t doubted it, since the moment you said you had something to tell me, I’ve seen it. You don’t need to prove it, Peter, my love. I _know_ it. That’s not what this is about, is it?”

Peter shakes his head, emotions choking him again- he’s so stupid and of course- Tony’s already said he believed Peter. Peter’d already cried, scared that Tony would think he didn’t _know_ what he’d done was wrong, he’d cried as Tony held his face and said, “I hear you, I hear your apologies, I hear them, Peter, breathe, baby. Breathe for me, my love.”

Maybe he needs the reminder to breathe again, he thinks, as the hand slams down and he can’t find air in the little world Tony has created for them around this chair- he can’t find _air_ , so he can’t _count_ , not for a long moment, while he listens to his own choked little noises and feels Tony’s hand resting heavily on his smarting ass. Finally he’s able to push down the emotions enough to draw a shaky breath and spit out, “Five, sir.”

“Good,” agrees Tony, and Peter’s mouth lets out a sob that he tries to smother with a hand. “Hands down,” Tony orders sharply, and Peter fists both hands in Tony’s pants, nodding. “Give me your _best_ ,” Tony demands, and Peter continues to nod wildly, as Tony’s hand rises and falls heavily, shockingly, ripping another cry that ends in a hissed, “Six, sir,” Peter panting for control.

The control shatters as Tony says, “Good,” continuing in a low, aching tone of voice, “You know I love you. You know it, that I will forgive you anything, even your worst, even this- even this little nothing, this human mistake you made, Peter. I’ll forgive a hundred of these, you _never_ have to be perfect, Peter. Ever. Not for me.” He takes a long slow breath and then continues urgently, his voice laced with pain, “I will _always_ give you my best self. And if this is what you want to give me- a hundred thousand human mistakes and errors and pain and careless heedless cruelty, then I will take it, Peter, because it comes from you, and I will take anything you want to give me, any terms you want to negotiate- I love you stupidly and selflessly and if you want that- I can take it.”

“No, no, no,” cries Peter, gulping air. “No, Tony, I want- I want to give you my _best_ , be my _best,_ for you, for- I’m sorry, I’m so sorry- I only want- I will- I will be my best, I will Tony, please, please let me-”

The hand flies, interrupting Peter’s babble with a short sharp yelp. There’s silence for a moment, until Peter counts humbly, “Seven, sir,” his body trembling and shaking, now.

“Good,” praises Tony, and Peter snorts, choking and gasping, his hands gripping tight to Tony’s ankles as Tony’s arm lifts again, and slams down, the slap echoing in Peter’s ears and, he’s sure, around Peter’s entire world, in the way nothing else in his life ever has. Peter cries, and tries to breathe, and tries to hold still, and tries to hold on to Tony, who loves him, and forgives him already, and who only- who Peter _hurt_ , today, and who still isn’t _mad_ or _angry_ , who isn’t being bitchy or petty or- or any of the things- any of the-

Tony’s hand lifts, and Peter flinches. It doesn’t fall. Tony breathes, and Peter breathes, and when Tony asks lowly, “Keep going?” Peter lets out a sob, nodding. “M’ best,” he promises Tony wetly. “M’ _very_ best, I’m- I’m going to- you’re going to get- m’ _very_ best, Tony, I promise.”

“Good,” murmurs Tony, letting his hand rest gently, the soft caress shocking through Peter as sharply as the last blow. Peter finally realizes Tony has stopped, waiting patiently for Peter to count. God, even now, even after- the man still gives Peter his best. Peter moans, “Eight, sir,” burrowing slightly into the warmth of Tony’s stomach with his side, feeling for the solidity of the man, marvelling at the way the man loves him so completely and entirely, like a blazing fire beside Peter, controlled and captured and tamed down to something that will warm without injuring.

Tony could be a bonfire in Peter’s life, Peter’s sure of it, a blazing bonfire that would wreak destruction and leave nothing but burn scars in its wake. A dangerous thing, burning brightly and passionately and consuming entirely. 

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t let himself- Peter sees it all the time, the restraint and the caution, the way he turns down the alcohol he wants, in the moments he wants it most. The way he visibly bit back his initial reaction to Peter’s first whispered confession, his arm muscles tensing as he took in the words- and their importance.

The way he hesitates, considering every angle he can, before he offers Peter anything, as if he truly does live every moment trying to give Peter only the best of him.

“Good,” repeats Tony, and his hand lifts up again. Peter nods, and promises, “M’best, Tony, I will, I won’t forget- I-” and breaks off as the hand falls, shaking his frame, hissing. 

“Nine, sir,” he blurts out, forcing the words although his voice is so thick it’s almost unrecognizable.

“You can make mistakes, you don’t have to be so perfect, Peter Parker,” murmurs Tony, his voice still wracked with emotion and wrecked, “but you will _always_ come to me, just like this, won’t you? Come to me and _tell_ me, with all of that outrageous courage, God, what have I ever done to deserve that courage, Peter? What-” he falls silent a moment, and Peter can feel him shift, the way his stomach quivers, shoving down his tears before he finishes, “So you see, you didn’t fail me, or give me less than your best, did you, Peter Parker? This time? Did you? Didn’t you come to me, and _tell me_ what I needed to know? And isn’t that the best I could ever hope for?”

Peter swallows shame. No, Tony should hope for _more_ , for _better_ , for- for-

“I love you,” Tony whispers. “And I’ll let you destroy me, if you need to, if that’s the best you can give me.”

“It’s not-” sobs Peter. “I can- I’ll do better, I’ll give you my best, you always give me your best, I’ll do that- I’ll- I’ll remember, I’ll give you my best, too, Tony, I will, I promise, let me- let me try- I-”

The hand rises and falls quickly, shocking one last cry out of Peter. It rests there as he continues to promise Tony that he’ll give his lover what his lover gives him- only his best effort, his best self. 

Tony shushes Peter, and rights him, allowing Peter to huddle into his strong frame and wrapping his arms around Peter’s body, pulling him tight. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, a dozen times, into Peter’s hair. “I know you will. I know, Peter. I do. I promise, I do. Me too. I will. Only my best, for you, that’s all I want.”

Peter collapses against Tony and feels the fear leave him, as Tony reassures him that it was a stupid mistake, and Tony believes him, Tony loves him, and he knows Peter will do better, will give Tony his best, he knows it and he believes it as fervently as Peter believes it. 

“I love you,” Tony murmurs against the top of Peter’s head. “I love you and I will _always_ love you.”

“I love you,” sobs Peter, nodding his head. “I’m so sorry and I love you, and I _will_ , I will give you my best, I promise, I won’t-”

“Shhh,” Tony shushes him, rocking slightly, hand rubbing up and down Peter’s back. “It’s all done. Didn’t I say, we’d only need ten?”

Peter snorts and then chokes, falling back into a softer sniffling cry as he lets Tony cradle him against Tony’s life-tested frame. He can hear Tony’s heartbeat, strong and solid, and feel the forgiveness in Tony’s open body language. Tony heard him out, heard everything, Tony was hurt- and now Tony has forgiven him, and trusts Peter to do his best.

Peter wipes his cheek on Tony’s shirt front and sighs. “Why do you love me?” he asks bitterly. “Why- I’m such a fuck up, I’m a walking human trash fire, how can you-”

“We’ll work on that negative self talk some other day,” chuckles Tony in a blurred imitation of his usual laugh, “because you know that none of that is true and you’re just trying to beat yourself up because I’m done beating you up.” 

Peter snorts- ten spanks is hardly a warm up, much less a _beating_.

Tony makes a little musing sound and kisses Peter’s head. “I love you,” he says slowly, considering every word, giving Peter his best, “because even when you hurt me, I know you never mean to, and I know I never have to worry about you making the same mistake twice.”

Peter blows out a breath and says, quietly, “I mean, I’m dumb, sometimes, but I’ll do my best, I will, Tony. I promise, I will.”

“That’s all a man can ask,” Tony tells him, his own voice just as quiet. “That’s all any man can ask.”

Peter shifts, the burn in his ass already starting to fade, burrowing closer still to Tony’s solid bulk and warmth.

“Your best is perfect for _me_ ,” Tony says quietly, in an almost-whisper that sounds like a confession. 

Peter rubs his cheek on Tony’s shoulder and sighs. “Your best is pretty perfect for me, too,” he tells the man, letting the last of the tension bleed out of him as the heartbeats tick by, slow and stately.

The silence in the room is as complete and absolute as after that first fearful confession, but Peter’s no longer feeling anything but love and determination. He will give Tony his best, today and every day moving forward. And when he fucks up, which seems inevitable, he’ll do anything to earn Tony’s voice saying, _outrageous courage_ , up to and including counting to ten, again, if he has to. 

He’ll do anything for this man.

Including give his very best.

Including counting to ten.

**Author's Note:**

> So, mission accomplished?


End file.
